


Fire and Scars

by AllThatWeSeeOrSeem



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Biting, Desire, Discussion of canonical character death, Dry Humor, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Pillow Talk, Resolved Sexual Tension, Semi-Graphic Descriptions of Burns, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThatWeSeeOrSeem/pseuds/AllThatWeSeeOrSeem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel and Thranduil meet, having both been touched by fire with very different results, but find that there is more between them than either could have guessed. In Thranduil, Glorfindel sees what might have become of him, had he lived. In Glorfindel, Thranduil sees what might have been, had he only been more favoured by the Valar. If only he had not lived. Set long before, but inspired by, The Hobbit (see notes).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by that one scene in The Hobbit, you all know the one I mean, where Thranduil tells Thorin he has "faced the great serpents on the North". I couldn't help drawing parallels, and this came about. I'm trying to keep it M Rated, but if you come back for Chapter 2 and find the rating has been upgraded, don't be surprised. As always, let me know if I missed tagging something.

There was no lie in saying that Glorfindel was relieved that the evening had come to an end. The moment propriety dictated he could slip away, he had retreated to his rooms, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it with the breath of a sigh leaving his lips. 

He had felt King Thranduil’s eyes on him throughout dinner, and again in the Hall of Fire afterwards. He could not deny that the gaze made his head spin and his heart flutter in his chest. 

No one had looked on him like that since his return. They looked at him with hero worship in their eyes, sometimes respect, often fear, but never desire, pure and naked. 

When word had first arrived that King Thranduil himself was coming to Imladris, Glorfindel had not anticipated the beauty of the reclusive woodland king. He half believed the whispered rumours that Thranduil hid himself away due to a terrible ugliness. 

Oh how wrong those rumours were.

When he gazed at Thranduil, his soul felt young. There was a giddiness that bubbled up in his chest which he had not felt since he had taken his first lover back in Gondolin, shortly after his majority. He never thought to feel such again. It was the feeling of first kisses and anticipatory touches, of nervous movements against another unfamiliar body in the dark.

Thranduil had not danced that evening as many had when someone had struck up a song on a harp, but he may as well have. The way he moved around the room, nodding politely if somewhat coldly to the inhabitants of Imladris, was a dance in itself, and Glorfindel had found himself having to sit down on one of the benches lining the perimeter of the room due to the sudden weakness in his knees. 

He is interrupted from his musings by a knock at the door behind his back. The knock is unfamiliar to him, and in a moment he realises just who it must be.

It takes another knock, more insistent this time, before he turns and opens the door. 

An apology for the late hour, an offer of wine, and suddenly Thranduil is standing in his chamber eyeing him over the rim of the glass. 

Glorfindel feels wrong-footed and shy. He dares not pour out wine for himself, though he would welcome the opportunity to hide himself behind the glass. His hands, steady and sure even in the most dire of battles, tremble like new leaves in the wind. 

The elf king gives no hint at his intentions, despite the heavy weight of his gaze, so Glorfindel leads with the long-practised detachment of diplomacy.

“You honour us with your presence in Imladris, King Thranduil. Few have seen you outside your own realm.”

He is shocked by the sound of his voice; he knows what he sounds like in the midst of the heat of arousal, and he in not far from it. 

“I had great reason for remaining,” Thranduil drawls slowly, either not noticing or uncaring of the state of the other elf, “but I had greater reason now for coming here. A temptation, if you will, which I could not pass up.”

Glorfindel watches the elf king make his way in casual exploration around the room, and realizes he is jealous of his own wine glass; he wants those long fingers on his body instead. He thinks he sees a smirk grace Thranduil’s face before it is once again whisked away, but he cannot be sure of anything just then. 

“And what might we have here in Imladris to temp you from your own halls?”

“Why, you, Lord Glorfindel.”

Hope and confusion war within him in equal measures, and it’s all he can do to raise his eyebrows in silent question.

“I must confess, long have I desired to meet you. I had heard tales and songs of your battle with the Balrog, but when word reached us that you had arrived on these shores…!”

Glorfindel can feel his lust fade beneath his disenchantment like a tiny flame doused by the sea. He finds he must take a deep breath, two, before he is able to speak. His voice is wooden now, and hollow, “ah, so it is merely curiosity, then, that has you coming all this way to gape at me.”

“You sound disappointed.” Thranduil is standing before him suddenly, and his blue eyes pierce Glorfindel through the core and hold him in place. "Did you think I had not heard of your deeds, or indeed, that I had not been raised on stories of you just as every other elf born since?"

“It makes a good tale, true, but few like to remember that I had to live it. And I re-live it, every time they sing those wretched songs.”

Thranduil nods, freeing Glorfindel from his gaze as he takes a thoughtful sip of wine. His lips are still wet when he lowers the cup, and Glorfindel finds he would still give anything to be able to lick that wetness away. 

“It is one thing when the heroes of old are long dead, but to stand before one of them... Ah, but you mistake me greatly. You are not the only one who has been touched by fire, and that is why I have sought you out.” Something in the king’s eyes makes Glorfindel pause, and reconsider his misgivings. “But tell me, how is it you were healed?”

The question is accompanied by Thranduil making a slow turn around Glorfindel as he stands immobile and wary. The close presence of the elf king is intoxicating. Glorfindel can smell the heady scent of the rich oils he had used in his hair, can feel the brush of Thranduil's robes against his own. He swears that, just for a moment, he can sense the touch of fingers through his hair.

“I was not healed." He explains quietly, "My body was burnt away, beyond salvage or repair. When the Valar brought me back, they remade it new again.”

“Then you have not known the pain of healing. That is good.” There is genuine relief in Thanduil's voice.

Glorfindel halts the king’s pacing, comes to stand before him and dares to grasp his chin, gently, so he may look into his eyes and find the truth. He ignores the hitch of breath from the elf king, the way his eyes darken. Yes. There it is, the flinch of pain, of remembered agony.

He feels his blood run cold in realization, then hot again as Thranduil takes his hand in his and removes it from his face. His touch is electric, leaving Glorfindel bereft when he drops his hand and turns away.

“You know this pain.” Glorfindel says with certainty to the elf king’s back. 

Thranduil is silent for a long time. He stands with his back to Glorfindel and stares into the fire, his shoulders tense. Then, he drains his wine cup and sets it down on the nearby table. 

When he turns back toward Glorfindel, there is a new resolve in the set of his shoulders, the look in his eyes as he meets Glorfindel’s own. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: This chapter was originally part of chapter 1, but I have broken it up to better fit with the word count of subsequent chapters.

Thranduil steps back into Glorfindel’s space, the simple move increasing the tension between them a hundred fold. Desire runs though him anew and Glorfindel would like nothing better than to crush the elven king in his arms, but he resists, because he would first know Thranduil’s story as Thranduil knows his, because there is still hesitation in the other elf that he would see eased.

Finally, Thranduil speaks, “I know it well, yes. I have fought the great serpents of the North, and lived, when many were not so lucky. But I am scarred, and millennia has not and will not heal it.”

Glorfindel runs his hand down the collar of the elf king’s robes, parting the fabric and brushing it aside, enjoying the way Thranduil’s eyelids flutter, “Where do you hide these scars?”

“They are hidden, yes, though not by my clothing.”

“Will you not show me?”

Thranduil’s expression turns wary and defensive, “I show no one, not even my own son."

Glorfindel pets down the elf king's arms, and up again, placating, as Thranduil clutches his own biceps in a vice-like grip. Glorfindel waits, infinitely patient. 

"My son means everything to me. I could not bear the look in his eyes were he to see the truth, where he to see how _damaged-_.” Thranduil says eventually, though his voice is little more than a whisper.

Glorfindel feels his chest constrict in sympathy, “you underestimate your son, I think. You certainly underestimate me. Just because I did not endure healing does not mean I do not remember the pain, the smell of my burning flesh, my hair singed down to the scalp. My flesh melted, fused around my sword until I could no longer release my grip. I could not judge anyone who survives fire, King Thranduil.”

“It is my face.” His voice is low and broken.

“Your face?” Glorfindel wants desperately to run his thumbs over the eyebrows on that face.

“My face is in ruins. Illusion hides it, from all but myself. I can see it, I can feel it, I know it is there.”

“Does it pain you?” Glorfindel asks with concern.

“Most of it has been numbed by the flames, but where I still have feeling, it is a constant ache.”

With that confession Glorfindel gives into his pressing desire to touch, runs his fingertips along Thranduil’s brow and down his cheeks. The touch seems to calm Thranduil, who allows it to continue for long moments. Glorfindel continues down the elf king’s neck to his chest, once more pushing aside the edges of the cloth so he can feel smooth bare skin under his palms. 

Thranduil arches into the caress with a sigh, his own hands moving down Glorfindel's ribs to his waist. 

The change starts slowly on Thranduil's face and spreads, the illusion peeling away to reveal raw exposed tendons, the milky white of a blinded eye. In places the flesh has been burned away nearly to the bone, muscle chewed away by the ravages of fire. Glorfindel leans back in the embrace to fully see the elf king's face, and feels the breath leave his body. 

“Now you see the truth of fire and flame." Thranduil says evenly, "Be glad the Valar re-made you.”

"How did you survive such injury?" Glorfindel asks, half in awe.

"I have been asking myself that for centuries. How, and why." 

His tone is self-depreciating, and Glorfindel quickly presses a forefinger to his lips, "Do not question why, do not ask why you lived when, Valar save me, I spent long enough wondering why I had to die!"

The sound Thranduil makes is very close to a sob. They are standing close together now, their lips inches apart, breathing each other’s breath.

"I did not expect you to pull all my secrets from me." He gives a hollow laugh, " I came here tonight in the hopes I might be invited into your bed. Is there any chance of that, now?"

Glorfindel's smile is small, but it is there, "I wanted you the moment I first laid eyes on you. Nothing has changed, and nothing will."

Thranduil’s hands fist themselves in Glorfindel’s hair as Glorfindel’s fingers run gently along the elf king’s jaw, skimming the edges of his scarred flesh. 

Their lips meet by mutual agreement. They are evenly matched, of equal height and breadth, and so their fight for dominance ends in a stalemate, though neither one minds. 

Glorfindel licks his way into the elf king's mouth, only to quickly find the tables turned on him. When the desperate kiss finally breaks, Glorfindel gasps in air and Thranduil's lips make their way down his throat to the junction of his shoulder. There teeth sink into sensitive flesh and Glorfindel howls in reply, hauling the elf king's body closer against his own. 

Their clothing is quickly discarded and left to fall where it will. It is not long before they take their battle to Glorfindel’s bed, meant for a single occupant and therefore crowded, the occasional limb having nowhere to go but to fall off the edge to be hauled back again. Only good elven craftsmanship prevents the bed from buckling and failing under the combined weight of two and their furious movements. 

Glorfindel buries his length in the crease of Thranduil's thigh and welcomes the reciprocated pressure against his own. The elf king's fingernails rake down his back as he claws Glorfindel's body closer, and Glorfindel goes willingly, pressing heated kisses to Thranduil's chest.

Glorfindel loses track after that, of just where his body ends and Thranduil's begins. There will be time and patience for proper love making later, but for now they rut against each other like animals, growling and snarling. They come together, biting hard into each other’s shoulders as they find release. It is possible that both their cheeks are wet with tears.

Afterwards they lie naked and tangled together. Thranduil’s face once again appears whole. 

“I came here hoping to find in you a kindred spirit. I did not come expecting to find such beauty.” Thranduil confesses as he plays with Glorfindel’s spent cock, waiting for the moment when it will twitch back to hardness again.

Glorfindel laughs, low and rich, and then kisses the hurt frown from the elf king’s face. “Let us forget whatever it was we once thought of one another. We know the truth, now.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is “Emotional Roller Coaster” a viable tag? Because I feel like it applies. Also, do we still need to write disclaimers at the beginning of every fan fic? They were doing that a decade ago, isn’t it pretty much universally known by now that if it’s fan fic, the author doesn’t have any claims to the original?

“You wear your braids still in the style of Gondolin.”

The words are a mere murmur in Glorfindel’s ear. They lay intertwined on Glorfindel’s bed, nearly one on top of the other due in part because of the limited space, and in part because they could not yet bear to be parted from each other.

The fire burns low in the hearth, giving the room a reddish glow, but outside the window they can see the moon rising. Imladris has grown quiet around them, the evening songs fading as its inhabitants make their way to sleep.

“What do you know of the styles of Gondolin?” Glorfindel teases lightly.

Thranduil continues with a lazy smirk, pointedly ignoring the question, his fingers trailing through the fine hairs at the nape of Glorfindel’s neck, then down his spine, “your hair is also long, far longer than is common these days. Is that Gondolin as well, or is that you?”

“That is my secret.” Glorfindel laughs, reaching back with one hand to trace up Thranduil’s thigh to his hip, only for his fingers to gently knead into the muscle there, “The hour is late, will you rest now?”

“With your hands still upon me? No, my body is not at rest, my mind neither.” Thranduil hesitates for a moment, two, and then “I would not rest beside you, at any rate, lest my thrashing and screams wake you.”

Glorfindel feels the easy amusement fade under the reality of what brought them together to this point in the first place. He is lying half on his back, one shoulder against the bed and one against the solid warmth of the elf king’s chest, but turns now so he may speak with Thranduil face to face. 

It is the first time he has really seen the elf king since they fell into bed together. Thranduil’s eyes are still dark with arousal that has not quite faded, his lips reddened from their furious kisses. One of his immaculate braids is no longer immaculate, having lost its tie at some point, and a dark bruise blossoms on his collar bone, sucked there by Glorfindel’s own mouth.

He cannot help but touch. His hands have a will of their own, reaching for the elf king, stroking over the planes of his abdomen, up over his chest. His thumb finds a peaked nipple and Thranduil arches into the touch with a hiss before taking the wandering hand in his own and pressing a quieting kiss to the palm. 

“Do your dreams often turn to nightmares?” Glorfindel brings himself to ask eventually, when he has filled himself with the sight of Thranduil.

“Often enough.” Comes the reply, “In my dreams I can feel dragon fire against my face. Tell me you at least have been spared such torment.”

But Glorfindel shakes his head.

“I dream of the Balrog’s great flame-filled eyes, and his whip of fire. It wraps around my chest, my throat, and I can hear the sizzle of my skin and feel the heat enter my lungs as I draw breath to scream.” Glorfindel’s voice is soft and emotionless, “there are nights when my screams wake all of Imladris, and I wake in turn in Lord Elrond’s arms, and I do not at first know where I am or if I am alive.”

Thanduil shifts in his embrace, his arms coming up to wrap around Glorfindel’s body. His hands as they sooth down Glofindel’s back are soft and strong and warm, and his kiss is firm and understanding. 

“Tell me of healing.” Glorfindel begs lowly, the fingertips of one hand stroking the side of the elf king’s face where he now knew deep scars were hidden.

Thranduil’s eyes flutter closed, in horror, in memory. He shakes his head, then buries it in Glorfindel’s shoulder with a strangled moan. Glorfindel blanches, reaches up to cradle the back of the elf king’s head with one hand. Thranduil shudders against him.

“I would share your pain.” Glorfindel explains, “I have been alone in mine. My lord is sympathetic, but he can never understand, and I would not burden him with it regardless.”

There is an anxious nod against his shoulder in agreement. Glorfindel eases his fingertips under the elf king’s jaw and tilts his head upwards so he may once again look into his eyes. 

“I would glimpse the other side of the coin.” Glorfindel says, “I would have the knowledge my death took from me.” 

Before he can move to kiss Thranduil, Glorfindel find’s the other elf’s lips already on his own. 

The kiss is hard and heady, and for a moment Glorfindel nearly forgets what it is he has asked. Thranduil is enthralling, from the slide of his tongue to the slide of his long smooth legs against Glorfindel’s own. 

“It is not like healing from the wound of a blade or arrow.” Thranduil begins gradually after the kiss ends, “The scourge of fire is brief and swiftly passes, but the healing seems as though it will never reach an end. I do not know how long it took, months, perhaps, a year. The healers kept it moist and bandaged, and kept me insensible for much of the time at first, plying me with strong alcohol and stronger herbs and potions. When I was lucid, the pain was raw and unbearable.” 

Glorfindel’s breathing is ragged with emotion. He wants to silence the elf king, he wants to kiss the memories of pain away, but Thranduil continues.

“Nights were the worse. There was no position I could sleep in that was not torture. I could not speak for months, as each time I moved my jaw it tore free the scabs that had formed. I subsisted on watery soups dribbled into the undamaged side of my mouth. Cold, always cold as I could not bear it warm. I shunned fire for years afterwards, preferring my rooms cold and dark and safe.”

Thranduil’s words only halt when Glorfindel cries out and throws himself on the elf king. Thranduil accepts the embrace readily enough, his eyes bright with unshed tears. 

“When I wake in the night,” Glorfindel whispers into his neck, “with the memory of my hair singed to the scalp by flame and fire, I can draw my hair around myself and know that it was just a dream. That is why I keep it so long.”

“If you would rest, I will be here should you wake in fear.”

Glorfindel considers, “I will sleep, but I would have you again first.”

Thranduil’s laugh is soft, “I wanted you at dinner. I would have shoved the meal to the floor and had you on the table in front of your people and mine.”

Glorfindel smiles weakly at the image, though he knows the king was not one to suppress his impulses, “And what had you changing your mind, not that I am not grateful I can still show my face around Imladris come morning.”

“In truth, I wasn’t sure if your lord would have joined us or run me through.”

“Oh, he would have run you through, no doubt, though not with a sword.” Glorfindel replies, one hand running in small circles low on the elf king’s belly.

“Have you anything?” Thranduil asks, peering out into the dimly lit room, “Salve, or ointment, perhaps?”

Glorifndel nods and makes to get up from the bed, but finds he has to untangle both his limbs and his hair from Thranduil first. Once free he pads naked across the room to the mantelpiece, Thranduil’s muffled moan of appreciation sounding behind him, to retrieve a small pot of salve. 

He pauses before returning to the bed to admire the elf king stretched out upon it. Thranduil’s skin fairly glows in the firelight, his hair and chest touched as well now by the moonlight shining in through the window. He looks wanton and wrecked, torn between deep desire and bitter anguish. 

Glorfindel wonders fleetingly if this will be the extent of their relationship, desperate need wrapped in the ever-present cloud of grief. If the relationship endures he wonders which will prove more fleeting, the lust or the sorrow. 

“Come.” Thranduil beckons to him, and Glorfindel obeys the king.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains less angst, because it was getting a bit much, and instead I’ve replaced it with smut. And, in case you didn’t notice, because I doubt anyone reads the notes:
> 
> NOTE: THIS FIC IS NOW RATED “EXPLICIT” THANKS TO THIS BEAST OF A CHAPTER THAT REFUSED TO REMAIN “M”.

They writhe together on the bed, but after long moments fail to reach a silent consensus on just which one of them should lead and which should follow.

Thranduil’s tactics are exacting; he sucks on a nipple until Glorfindel loses himself in want, and then uses Glorfindel’s distraction to pin him face down to the bed. Thranduil forces Glorfindel’s thighs apart with his own, sinking his teeth into the meat of his shoulder, and Glorfindel growls at the sensation but refuses to submit.

“If it helps, imagine I am your lord.” Thranduil chuckles, but Glorfindel scowls and heaves himself upwards, throwing Thranduil to the side to land on his back. 

“I serve my lord in all things, did you think I would serve him in bed as well?” Glorfindel counters as he pins the elf king in turn.

Thranduil’s eyebrows rise towards his hairline is obvious surprise, “I had assumed so, yes. Ah, so Elrond truly allows you to -!”

His words are cut off by a sharp kiss that is more cruel silencing teeth than gentle tongue. 

“And you, have you much experience?” The question is honestly meant and, in such circumstances, not an unusual one, but Glorfindel realizes immediately his mistake.

“I had a _wife_.” Thranduil enunciates slowly, mirth warring with sadness in his eyes. 

“Yes, of course, forgive me.” 

Thranduil scrambles through the blankets to find the lost pot of salve, and holds it up between them with eyebrows raised.

“Very well.” Glorfindel concedes with a sigh.

The grin that spreads across the elf king’s face is triumphant, tinged with awe and gratitude. Thranduil moves Glorfindel to lie on his belly on the bed, and once again makes room for himself between his thighs. Glorfindel sighs at the sensation of the elf king’s skin against his own, the weight of his body pressing him to the bed.

Thranduil gathers Glorfindel’s hair up in his fist and tosses it to the side to hang over the edge of the bed. He then moves to press hot kisses to the exposed nape of Glorfindel’s neck, and Glorfindel squirms, arching his hips down into the bedding and then up against Thranduil. 

Thranduil’s initial, intimate touch is cautious and exploratory, but Glorfindel pushes back against his fingers eagerly, urging him to a faster pace. The salve is cold but warms quickly against his skin. 

“Now!” Glorfindel urges, after the elf king has teased him mercilessly for long moments, three fingers deep in Glorfindel’s body and making desperate movements with his hips against Glorfindel’s thigh. 

Thranduil says nothing, but coaxes Glorfindel up onto his knees, his back bowed, and then the elf king is sliding into place behind him and draping himself along Glorfindel’s back. Glorfindel hesitates at the first burning pressure, but soon pushes back against Thranduil keenly. Thranduil moans low in his throat, his hips stuttering, before shoving himself forward with abandon. Glorfindel gasps, not entirely in pleasure, but then Thranduil forces himself still, his breathing ragged. 

“I-I can’t-!”

“All is well, move!” Glorfindel cries, and Thranduil does, rutting into him wildly.

Glorfindel’s fingers curl into the bedding beneath him, clutch at the blankets as he grits his teeth and answers Thranduil’s movements willingly. The thick slide of Thranduil inside him is exhilarating, and when the elf king reaches around to take his length in a firm grasp, Glorfindel shivers and bucks back against him and then forward into his fist.

Thranduil is holding himself back, Glorfindel can feel it. He urges him silently to let go, but Thranduil shakes his head furiously, his hair brushing against Glorfindel’s back. Glorfindel groans and drops himself forward to rest his head on his forearms. 

The new angle is powerful, intoxicating. Thranduil’s breath is hard and fast in his ear, his movements quickening. 

He can feel his release building powerfully within him. He wants to beg for it, but he can feel the strain of Thranduil against him, and knows there is no more he can give. Thranduil is near to shattering above him. 

Unexpectedly Glorfindel’s body tightens. He jerks and comes hard with a cry, and his cry is soon answered by Thranduil’s own. 

Afterwards his limbs feel weakened. Glorfindel surges forward to lay flat, taking Thranduil with him and uncaring of the sticky wetness smeared beneath his stomach. 

Eventually Thranduil sighs and pulls free of him, but he does not go far on the narrow bed. Glorfindel is glad of the warmth of the elf king’s body still pressed against his own. He is trembling, and while he tries to calm himself, he knows Thranduil must be well aware of his helplessness. 

In his irritation at himself he misses the trembling of Thranduil’s own body, the lost look on his face and the reverence in his eyes. 

“Sleep now.” Thranduil says finally, stroking down Glorfindel’s back soothingly. 

Glorfindel nods lazily, his eyes slipping into the unfocused look of sleep. 

 

*****

 

The sunlight streaming through the window is what finally wakes him, and Glorfindel begins to stretch his limbs before halting at the sudden realization that he is not alone in his bed. 

The events of the previous evening flood back into his memory even as Thranduil begins to stir beside him as well. 

He feels raw and wrung out, unrested. Thranduil groans and raises a hand to block the incessant sunlight from his eyes. Glorfindel wishes he could reach the drapes from the bed, and makes a mental note to rearrange the furnishings in his room. 

He considers simply turning over, wrapping himself around the elf king and returning to sleep, but then the bell sounds out over Imladris, signaling that the morning meal will soon be served.

“Are you always so eager here to start the day?” Thranduil grouses, tugging the blankets up.

“Do I _look_ eager?” Glorfindel counters, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth with effort, “And it is not as early as we would like it to be.”

Glorfindel pushes the blanket down his body and moves his legs out over the side of the bed, but when he moves to sit he hisses and falls back.

Thranduil is alert and hovering over him instantly, “Are you well? Have I hurt you?”

“I have suffered hurts worse than this,” He replies with a pained laugh, “It will pass.”

Thranduil frowns in suspicion, “Tell me, when is the last time you have been…receptive?”

He considers, “In truth, not since I was returned from Mandos’ Halls.”

This confession is met with a shuddery breath from the elf king as he lowers his forehead to Glorfindel’s shoulder.

“Then this body had never - You should have told me.” Thranduil breathes, “I would have been gentler, took more care.”

Glorfindel laughs at this, “I did not want you to be gentler! At the risk of sounding like a silly love-struck youth; it was perfect.”

“Such a phrase!” Thranduil mocks, scratching at the semen dried on Glorfindel’s belly as if to prove his point, “Silly youth indeed, to think there is perfection to be found in such a messy pleasure.” 

Glorfindel bats the elf king’s hand away and prepares himself to rise, and succeed this time, only to gasp for an entirely different reason as Thranduil nuzzles into his neck before taking the point of his ear into his mouth and curling his tongue around it. 

“Your people will be looking for you.” Glorfindel protests weakly, “My lord will be looking for me.”

“Let him find you here.” Thranduil purrs.

“He _will_ find me here, this is my bed!”

Thranduil laughs merrily, “and my own gifted bed untouched, what scandal!”

Glorfindel groans but settles back on the bed, and he can tell by the triumphant gleam in the elf king’s eyes that Thranduil knows he has won. 

“Five more minutes only.” Glorfindel insists, and Thranduil nods before blanketing his body with his own.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 needs to stop auto-rearranging the order of my tags! Also, I feel like “Canadian Spelling” should be a warning. I was taught to spell ‘favourite’ the British way with a ‘u’, but ‘color’ the American way without. We’re trying to please everyone over here, so if you notice inconsistencies, you now know why.

Breakfast is an awkward affair. Glorfindel sits on the left, and Thranduil on the right, and Elrond sits between them like the stern chaperone amid a young courting couple. Glorfindel does not question how his lord knows just where the visiting elf king spent the night, but there is no doubt that he is more than merely suspicious. 

It is well they said what they needed to before making their way to the Great Hall, because there is no possibility of Glorfindel getting word to Thranduil with Elrond between them, craftily interrupting and intercepting and steering the conversation of the table to his own end. 

Near the close of the meal he manages one desperate look to Thranduil, who answers it, before Elrond has a firm grasp on his elbow and is leading him towards their adjacent studies. 

By mid-morning, Glorfindel shuffles the papers on his desk without seeing them, supply lists and ledgers and accounts. His mind is in turmoil, his body alight. He tries to puzzle out the daily allotment of grain needed to feed Imladris in the fast approaching winter, but all he can think of is the eager press of Thranduil’s body against his own, how soft his lips had been that morning before they had finally pried themselves from Glorfindel’s bed to greet the day. 

He wants so badly to push aside the papers and abandon his study to seek out the elf king. He imagines taking him into his arms, and longs for Thranduil’s answering embrace. He wants Thranduil, but would have let the elf king take him again if only it meant they could be joined once more. 

Glorfindel moans, reaching down to press his palm against himself through his suddenly stifling robes. His own touch makes his hips buck upwards involuntarily. He wonders just where Thranduil is at that moment.

And then he knows.

From Elrond’s study next door comes the sound of raised voices. One is undeniably Thranduil, and the other, softer and more even tone, is Elrond’s own. 

Glorfindel does abandon his study, then, and moves out into the hall. The thick stone muffles the words, even to keen elf ears, but the tone of the conversation is unmistakable. 

The door is suddenly thrown open and Thranduil flies out of it. His eyes land on Glofindel and immediately Glorfindel finds himself pinned, the cold stone wall at his back and the fuming elf king pressed down his front. 

Thranduil kisses him brutally, knocking Glorfindel’s head back against the wall, but he pulls back again before Glorfindel can even react.

“Talk some sense into your lord!” Thranduil hisses, all but spitting out the word ‘lord’ as though the mere taste of it on his tongue is too bitter, “I will not leave Imladris again without you.”

And then he is gone, passing down the hall in a flurry of robes.

Glorfindel slips into the room to find Elrond sitting at his desk, his head resting on his palms, massaging his temples in small circles.

“You know you are free to depart Imladris whenever you will.” Elrond says without looking up.

“I know, yes.” Glorfindel answers, “But I have a feeling those are not the same words you gave King Thranduil just now.”

“No, they are not.” Elrond sighs and lifts his head to regard his seneschal, “When you swore loyalty to me, I swore in turn to offer you my protection. If I cannot protect you from Thranduil…”

“My lord, I-”

“It is not an overzealous lover I seek to protect you from, my friend, you are quite capable of handling such an affair. I seek to protect you from a greedy, self-serving king who would aim to add a jewel such as you to their kingdom’s treasure.”

Glorfindel sets his jaw and grits his teeth, unwilling to reveal Thranduil’s secret, even to his lord, but unsure how else to explain his new and sudden devotion to the elf king. 

“You worry for nothing” He says at last, “there is more between us than you presume. There is care, and kindness, and understanding. I look on him and I feel complete, as I have not felt in a very long time.”

Elrond is silent at this, and eventually Glorfindel turns and leaves the room. 

He knocks first on the door of the rooms Thranduil had been granted use of while staying in Imladris, but, of course, there was no answer. He makes his way to his own rooms instead, knowing that there he would find the elf king waiting for him.

He is correct. 

Thranduil sits in one of the two chairs in front of the cold hearth, his back to the room. Glorfindel closes the door behind himself, and he knows Thranduil is aware of his presence, but he remains silent.

Finally, when Glorfindel stands tense and makes no move, he speaks.

“So, did you make him see reason, or did you have to bend him over that desk of his and-”

“Enough!” Glorfindel bellows in a rare display of temper, “He treats me like a blushing innocent in need of council in their first brush with matters of the heart, no matter how he claims otherwise, and you, _you_! I am not an untitled maid you can lay claims on and whisk away. I am older than both of you, no matter that some of that time was spent in Mandos’ Halls, and I will not be bartered back and forth between you! ”

Thranduil is silent. 

Glorfindel sighs and passes a hand over his forehead. He moves around to stand in front of Thranduil, who does not look up at him.

“My place is here-”

“No!” Thranduil jerks forward, rising nearly up out of the chair.

“My place” Glorfindel begins again, deliberate and even, bending over to set his hands on either arm rest of Thranduil’s chair, forcing the elf king to sit back down, “is here. Imladris has become my home. I serve Lord Elrond.”

“What is a lord compared to a king?” Thranduil snarls, but some of the heat has gone out of his voice, and he sits somewhat slumped in the chair now, defeated.

Glorfindel smiles and moves away to take a seat in the chair opposite, “We are not giddy youths; we met _yesterday_ , King Thranduil, and we fell into bed together, but that is all. I cannot deny there is something between us, but we know nothing of each other. Nor will we if there is strife driving us apart again so soon.”

“Something between us.” Thranduil echoes hollowly, “That is all you see. Something between us.”

“Do you deny it?”

“Deny it!” Thranduil spits, “my very soul yearns for you, as it has yearned for no one since my wife, and you water it down to a vague ‘something’ between us!” 

“I am a warrior, not a poet.” Glorfindel pleads with a grimace, “I am not good with finding flowery words and crafting pretty phrases. I cannot name this, but I know when the Valar has had their hand in something. My body and soul cries out for you, _that_ I know with certainty.”

“Then if you will not return with me, and I cannot remain here indefinitely, leaving my people ungoverned, what options do you see left to us?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again the story I thought I was writing is writing itself, right out of control. Anyone have any ideas for an end game? Also I love Elrond so much and have to go write him something nice and sweet after this.

Glorfindel reclines on the bed, Thranduil before him, with his back against Glorfindel’s chest. The night is still young but a small fire burns in the hearth to ward off the chill of the early autumn air. 

Thranduil’s earlier question remains unanswered between them. It had made the remainder of the day tense and awkward, but still they had found themselves drawn together in the evening, kisses hesitant and guarded at first. In truth, Glorfindel does not know what answer to give. He would not see them parted, but they both have duties and responsibilities of their own, and neither are so reckless to throw those away in favour of perusing a wild romance. 

As Glorfindel draws the last sleeve of Thranduil’s robe from his shoulders and down his arm, letting it fall into a puddle of fabric on the floor, they are finally both laid bare. 

Glorfindel can’t resist the naked shoulder under this chin, hard muscle under satin skin. He tips his head down, laying kisses along that skin, as Thranduil shifts impatiently with arousal. 

“This time, I would have you” Glorfindel murmurs, nuzzling into the elf king’s neck.

Unlike before, there is no competition between them, no banter or jests. Thranduil’s whole body is rigid against Glorfindel’s own, and Glorfindel wonders at it, until he realizes the elf king is urgently trying to restrain his desire, waiting to see evidence of Glorfindel’s earnestness. 

Thranduil’s length is hot and hard, drawn up against his belly, and Glorfindel slides a hand down to stoke against it. The effect is immediate; Thranduil arches back against him, his chest heaving. 

“I desire you,” Glorfindel reassures, “I care for you, I long for you. I need you.”

Thranduil’s only answer is a shudder and a gasp, and a violent jerk of his hips when Glorfindel follows up his words with a gentle nip at the point of his ear. 

“The pot of salve is still half full,” Thranduil grunts, “I suggest you make use of it soon.”

Glorfindel retrieves the salve from beneath the pillows, regards it thoughtfully, and then sets it aside again for the time being in favour of exploring Thranduil’s body with passionate fingertips and lips and tongue. Thranduil writhes in his arms, silent but responsive to his touch, and Glorfindel wishes he could see the elf king’s face. 

All too soon his need becomes unbearable, and it is clear Thranduil is losing patience as well. Finally, Glorfindel opens the small pot and swirls a long forefinger through its contents.

He runs his palm down Thranduil’s back, over the mound of his rear, and then - !

Thranduil’s back bows, his head thrown back against Glorfindel’s shoulder as he gasps. Glorfindel smiles into his neck. 

It isn't long before Thranduil is pushing back against him, quietly begging for more. 

He slides into Thranduil then, slowly, gently, relishing the firm hot grip of his body. When he is fully seated he pauses, listening to the elf king’s ragged breathing above his own unsteady pants. He wraps one arm around Thranduil’s abdomen, his palm laid flat against the warm skin, and waits.

It is torture. He wants nothing more than to take his pleasure, his body urges him to it, but he knows he would forever regret should he harm his new lover. Glorfindel deliberately focuses on evening his breathing instead, the air stirring Thranduil’s fine pale hair. 

Then, Thranduil squeezes around him and he is unmade. His hips stutter forward against his will, and his arm tightens around Thranduil. 

“No, stop!” Glorfindel cries, “I – I cannot - !”

But Thranduil shakes his head, unable to speak, and instead shoves back against Glorfindel, silently pleading with him to _move_. 

Glorfindel does, pulling himself nearly free of Thranduil before easing himself back in. He does it again. And once more. Thranduil claws at the arm around his waist, but he is still rocking fervently back against him. 

“I – I need…”

Glorfindel, still buried within the elf king’s willing body, shifts them on the bed, pulling Thranduil underneath him and then up onto all fours. Now he can move deeper still, and Thranduil moans wantonly with each thrust.

In a rush of clarity, Glorfindel realizes just what the elf king needs, and plunges his teeth into the firm meat of Thranduil’s shoulder. 

Thranduil screams himself hoarse as he comes undone beneath him.

Moments later, as Glorfindel is still thrusting frantically in search of his own release, the door flies open, and Elrond is halfway across the room before he takes in the sight before him and flinches to a stop. 

“I thought….” centuries of responding to the screams of nightmares had had Elrond on his feet and running before he was truly alert and rational.

Glorfindel pulls free of Thranduil, who thankfully gives no protest, and climbs from the bed to go to his lord.

There is a lost, dejected look in Elrond’s eyes, and Glorfindel feels for him. They have been dear friends and easy lovers for centuries. It had been Glorfindel who had held and consoled Elrond after Celebrian had sailed, his hair draped around Elrond, so like in colour to Celebrian’s own, and what had become a pleasurable way to comfort his lord and friend had turned to far more.

But that was behind them now. It had to be. Glorfindel knew the difference between enjoying oneself with a friend and making love to a lover. He and Elrond had made no declarations to each other, held no promises between them. Their deep friendship would endure, but Glorfindel's heart had never been with his lord, just as Elrond's heart had always been with his wife. And now, Glorfindel's lay elsewhere.

He gathers Elrond to him, ignoring the fact he is naked and still hard, his cock glistening with salve that leaves a dark stain on Elrond’s night clothes. Elrond breath catches on a moan before he is reaching up to clutch at Glorfindel in return.

“Are you content?” Elrond asks brokenly, after long moments.

Glorfindel half turns to regard the elf king still on the bed. He is stretched out almost languidly, unashamed of his nudity, though Glorfindel recognizes the stiff set of his shoulders and the tightness straining his mouth. He is waiting, unsure if he is about to be rejected now in favour of a more familiar lover.

“Yes.” Glorfindel breathes, "I am."


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to post this, it’s been a very busy time irl lately! I really wanted this story to go on longer, but my fickle muse abandoned it. I'm still hoping for a sequel.
> 
> A million thanks to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented!

With the revelation that snow has already fallen in the mountains, it is decided that King Thranduil and his party will remain in Imladris over the winter, leaving Thranduil’s son and councillors to govern his kingdom temporarily in his absence. 

"I will have a fine mess to set right when I return," Thranduil grumbles, to which Glorfindel's only answer is an indulgent smile. 

Thranduil finally makes use of the guest room he has been appointed by Lord Elrond, but Glorfindel goes with him. It does, after all, hold a larger bed. Glorfindel sees little of his own rooms after that, and they spend the winter together, learning each other body and soul and mind.

They grow impossibly close. Glorfindel tells the elf king of his family, and stories of Gondolin he has thus far been unwilling to share with anyone. In turn, Thranduil talks of his wife, of her beauty and kindness, of her love for their son. And of her death. 

"One day, I will tell Legolas of her." Thranduil says, "but until then, I will spare him the grief."

If Glorfindel disagrees with the elf king's decision to keep a mother's memory from her son, he says nothing, only does his best to ease the sadness from Thranduil's eyes.

They meet on the training yard one day just before the first snows of winter reach the valley, and finally, finally, Glorfindel sees Thranduil dance as he will not in the presence of music.

Glorfindel wields a great sword as he has since Gondolin the way most elves take to smaller swords half its weight. He is taller than most in Imladris and broad across the shoulders, and with nearly four feet of thick iron in his hands, few are willing to spar with him.

But Thranduil, Thranduil turns a simple practice into an intricate dance. His fine slender swords slice through the air, leading his body behind them, his feet rarely on the ground and never still. They are both well trained enough that there should not have been a risk of injury, and yet Glorfindel nearly has his forearm sliced open in his distraction. 

Thranduil jumps back, eyebrows raised, silently asking if Glorfindel wishes to continue. Glorfindel nods once in answer, and springs forward. 

A crowd gathers to watch the two of them, but Glorfindel feels as though he is alone with the elf king. It is nearly as intimate as being in bed together, thrusts and feints and whirls and jabs bringing them together and apart and together again on the yard. 

They are both stripped to the waist, their torsos gleaming. Glorfindel has tied his hair back and out of the way, but Thranduil’s falls loose, streaming around him as he moves. Glorfindel refuses to yield, and refuses to press any advantage, in order to prolong the experience as much as possible. 

It is the dinner bell which finally ends the match. The crowd moves away, leaving the two elves standing facing each other, swords held loosely at their sides, chests heaving in synch with each other. Glorfindel finds he is unable, and unwilling, to break Thranduil’s gaze. 

They do not make it to dinner that night.

When spring comes to Imladris, they both know what they have had through the long months of winter must come to an end. They fall asleep later and later each night as the snow melts from the mountain pass, and tarry longer moments in bed together in the mornings. The night before Thranduil departs, they do not sleep at all, and instead make love until they are unable to do so any more, and then hold onto each other tightly until dawn.

Standing before the gates of Imladris, Glorfindel wishes, not for the first time that morning, for just one more hour to spend with the elf king. And yet one more hour, one more day, ultimately Thranduil must depart. 

Thranduil is looking at him intently, ignoring the impatient shuffling of the horses and the mumblings of the elves eager to return home. Suddenly he wrenches one of the ornate rings from his own hand and presses it into Glorfindel’s palm, folding his fingers over it. 

Glorfindel raises an eyebrow, tries to make light of it, though tears sting his eyes and he has not the breath in his lungs to form words.

“A promise.” Thranduil whispers tenderly. 

Glorfindel nods firmly, leans in to taste the elf king’s lips one more time.

“Look for me in autumn.” Glorfindel vows, “I will come to you.”

And then Thranduil leaves, and Glorfindel stands alone in the courtyard with only the bite of metal against his clenched fist to comfort him.

But autumn is not so far away.


	8. Author's Note

This fic still has a few subscribers, so I just wanted to let you all know that it now has a sequel! If you're interested in reading more of this story line, it's called "The Fire Which Refuses to Burn Itself Out".

(Is this allowed? I hope this was allowed.)


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